Two poems on religion

There’s no room for error. All calculations
Should fit in with the dictates of equations

And formula, no more no less. For example,
The answer to one plus one is eternally

Two, that’s true. Or the answer to the question
Of what is the square root of 64 is always eight,

Right? These are just simple things, but how much
More if we are going to talk about more complex matters

Say, the dimensions of a dam, the volume of a storage tank
Or the amount of force needed to propel a spaceship toward

The outer depths of the universe. Young one, just
Follow the dicta of our field and everything else

Will go ahead as planned.

﻿

The Word

I remember
The Word was once
A sharp-edged sword
Cutting through the diamond-hard
Surface of my heart,
Still stained with the dust
Of the Fall.
Its blade getting deeper,
Each time Adam’s instincts
Overrule within me,
The edicts from Vatican.
Pangs of conscience, they may say.

Now,
The Word is
But a rusty, old little butter knife,
Hardly making a dent on the
diamond-hard surface of my heart
(and still stained with dust of
The Fall).
The syllables of the Word
Barely echoing from the lonely pulpit.